Harry Potter and the Second Time Graduate
by MuseDePandora
Summary: A Harry/Draco fic inspired by the famous scene from The Graduate. “Mrs. Malfoy, you are trying to seduce me!”
1. Part 1 of 5

**Harry Potter and the Second-Time Graduate**

By MuseDePandora

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is the brainchild of J.K. Rowling and thus belongs to her and whomever she sells the rights to, which is not me in this case. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect of Harry Potter's creator. I claim no ownership of her creations. The Graduate also does not belong to me and I claim no right to the original work. Both works are gently parodied for the amusement of all and it is done so with admiration for the original material.

**Summary: **"Mrs. Malfoy, you are trying to seduce me!" A Harry/Draco fic inspired by the famous scene from The Graduate. "I hate your family, Draco."

**Rating: **M – for strong, but non-explicit adult themes and coarse language.

**Dedication:**Written as a response to a birthday request from Armity.

* * *

Harry Potter is a graduate again.

That is, if he counts Hogwarts, and he doesn't. Everyone else does. But he knows that he hasn't actually fulfilled the requirements of his seventh year and what that ultimately means. He tried but after the high of being Hero of the Wizarding World wore off, full-time schoolwork was just far too heavy a load.

It was the light; the walls seemed to be eating it up and the silence was so thick in patches that he was sure it was a series of spells. He avoided those too-quiet halls during the day and tormented himself into the night imagining what terrible echoes those charms were meant to cover up. Three weeks in and it was obvious he couldn't take it. The worst part was that they had seen him cry. Not only Hermione, Ron, and what was left of the teaching staff but also the gaggle of Slytherins brave enough to have returned. Draco Malfoy was at the periphery, slowing as a group of teachers and two Aurors escorted a blubbering Harry Potter down the hall. No matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't stop, pushed into every pocket of screams and filled with so much weariness that it was a disease. All Draco did was stare and that was more than enough. For the longest time, Harry was haunted by the fact that he would _know_.

"This is nothing to be ashamed of, Potter," McGonagall assured him from in front of what would always be the Headmaster's desk.

"No, of course not, Harry," Shacklebolt added. The Minister of Magic was absentminded in his replies, tapping a bent index finger against his lips. Harry knew what the man had to be thinking: How to cover up the fact that the icon of their victory was suffering a mental break, without him left appearing like a glorified high school drop-out. The answer was masterful.

Harry Potter was signed up for Auror Training. In front of a dozen select reporters, he was handed an ornate diploma bearing the Hogwarts seal and his co-conspirators' signatures. The minister had convinced the public that he had earned it by, "…His constant and unselfish sacrifices for his people." The press had gobbled it up but Harry found it hard to swallow. He couldn't help feeling like a cheater. Hermione still attended every class and exceeded all school requirements. She earned her own diploma the right way, even with her parents sharing a room with the Longbottoms at St. Mungo's. The healers spent her entire seventh year attempted to fix the damage caused by a botched reversal of Hermione's memory charms. She struggled with so much to hold that certificate. He should have done no less.

"When do you begin training, Mr. Potter?" Rita Skeeter crowed out as soon as the floor was opened to pre-approved questions.

"Unfortunately," Minister Shacklebolt said, "because of the decimation of our forces in The War, the Auror Department is being restructured. It will take some time before the training program can be properly reinstated. In the meantime, Mr. Potter shall be in service for the ministry on Unspeakable business."

The only reason it was unspeakable was because it would hurt post-war morale to know Harry Potter, The Boy who Lived and Died, would be in and out of St. Mungo's psychiatric unit four times in the next six months. Hermione would visit him before leaving Ron behind. No matter how much it tore her apart, she always visited what was left of her parents, what she had done to them. Harry wasn't in their ward. He wasn't insane; he only needed a quiet room away from the world with a window that showed an empty green pasture that wasn't there. After six months, Hermione couldn't visit anymore. She was accepted into an elite Wizarding medical school in France. She had decided if the healers couldn't fix her parents, she could or would study herself to death trying. Ron followed her since he had long decided her the love of his life and couldn't bear losing her.

Harry had become bored with his window still-life and signed himself out of the unit for the last time. The political winds had changed. Shacklebolt was nervous of any possible allegations of misconduct and even a small white lie could bring into question his suitability for office. And a dozen wizard and witch upstarts eyed his position. He made Harry an Unspeakable in truth, though none of the more earnest work could be trusted to someone with such emotional instability. Harry was worse than a glorified secretary; he was the man assigned to watch said secretary.

"How did you become an Unspeakable, Malfoy?" he asked one day. He was leaning against the countertop in the canteen set inside their specific department: only for Unspeakables and staffed by Unspeakables. There were at least a dozen that did nothing more than wash dishes and assemble sandwiches all day. Though no body else knew that, not even their families. They were paid to live a lie. Really, he fit in perfectly.

"How did _you_become one, Potter?" Malfoy replied with only the pretense of hostility. Harry ignored the snitty tone and watched him puzzle at the three mugs in front of them. "Shite. I can't remember. Was it Bennings that wanted four sugars, no crème, or was it Vibbard?"

"Vibbard. Bennings wanted you to go through the Kaffer file and highlight anything in the transcripts for importance."

"Today?"

"Yesterday."

"Fuck."

"Meanwhile, I take two sugars, please."

"Ha, you can make your own bloody coffee, Potter."

"Is that the way to talk to your supervisor?"

Malfoy smiled. "Suck it."

Two years after receiving his first graduation and a year after Auror training began in earnest, Harry Potter smiles for the cameras and the minister holds out his second diploma and shakes his hand for what feels like three minutes.

"When do you begin, Mr. Potter?" Rita Skeeter asks before the next graduate's name is called.

"Monday, I guess." He is terrified. The room laughs.

Twenty-seven witches and wizards graduate from Auror training today but it is Harry Potter that steals the front page. He knows that without seeing it, before it is even printed. Everyone knows that. His guilt is palpable but his colleagues suffer it with grace. They have already learned they will never measure up to those who fought and fell in the war. The ones who couldn't take it have long since dropped out. After all, the program started with fifty recruits.

"I can't believe I have to wake up to your cheeky face tomorrow while having breakfast. As if I haven't suffered that enough," Draco teases with a sneer and champagne. Harry laughs nervously since they could be overheard. "Don't laugh like that."

"Why?"

"You sound like a pouf."

"Ha-ha, Malfoy. Is your mother flirting with the minister?"

The party has been going for a while now and the room is so filled that people will start leaving soon. Draco glances over his shoulder to where Harry gestured his chin and a bulb explodes.

"All right, Harry?"

"Creevey!" Draco growls, blinking into his palm. Harry knows better than to look overly concerned about this in public. He is long accustomed to bouts of Creevey blindness; Draco, not so much, but he will survive. "If you don't stop doing that, I'm going to sneak into your loft at night, kick your mother out of your bed, and eat your liver."

"Is there any truth to the rumors that you're blowing Harry, Malfoy?"

"You filthy mud-!"

"Hey!" Harry shouts over them, smacking down Draco's hands as they reach out toward Creevey's throat. He smiles at the concerned and curious faces suddenly turned toward them. The minister purposefully continues conversation with Mrs. Malfoy and Rita Skeeter. There is no doubt Shacklebolt is in hell. Harry would try to make it easier on him if possible. "Colin, you do realize you are ruining the graduation party of twenty-seven newly certified Aurors, right?"

"Nonetheless pissing off an Unspeakable. You print that and my family's solicitors will sue you for libel so fast your mother will-"

"I think he's got the point, Draco. If you value your liver, be somewhere else, Creevey."

There is an exchange of dirty looks but Harry is happy the pissing contest is postponed. He hasn't drunk nearly enough for that. Draco downs the rest of his champagne in a gulp and heads back to the open bar for harder drinks. By the end of the night, he'll be pissed. Sometimes, Harry worries he is an alcoholic but feels he has no place to judge, considering his regular use of Felix Felicis. Just as he is considering this and watching Draco stomp away, he sees a new hoard of reporters and opportunists descend on him.

"Haaaarry Potterrr!" He knows it is going to be terrible when Skeeter sings his name.

* * *


	2. Part 2 of 5

_(Disclaimer:__ Harry Potter is the brainchild of J.K. Rowling and thus belongs to her and whomever she sells the rights to, which is not me in this case. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect of Harry Potter's creator. I claim no ownership of her creations. The Graduate also does not belong to me and I claim no right to the original work. Both works are gently parodied for the amusement of all and it is done so with admiration for the original material.) _

* * *

Harry feels he's a terrible, despicable person; hardly worthy of breathing actually. But he can't bring himself to be sorry. When the attention of the room turned to the heated argument between Rita Skeeter and Augusta Longbottom, the first thing he did was slip out the doors.

"You muck-sucking grindelow!"

"Such language, Mrs. Longbottom. From the matriarch of a family filled with –well, supposed- war heroes, I am shocked."

"Supposed!"

"The files on your son and his wife never were fully disclooo-ACK!"

There is no doubt Rita Skeeter was hit by at least one curse but with a roomful of enemies, it would be hard to figure who was responsible. He hopes more than one was able to get a nice hit in. For example, maybe Ginny threw one of her classic bat-boogies; something nice and non-fatal though terribly embarrassing. The hateful witch deserves as much. Though, doubtlessly, a newly graduated Auror will be stuck with the task of finding someone responsible.

There's no way in hell he's doing it. He has a hero card that he's not afraid to flash at any mention of her name. He's earned it, dammit. Though, it was rather low of him not to come to old Mrs. Longbottom's defense. For that reason, he is hardly worthy of breathing.

So he lights up a cigarette instead.

"Our savior smokes?"

He is so shocked to hear the door yanked open and that terror of a voice sneak in that he nearly drops the cigarette, only catching it by burning the palm of his other hand. "Shite."

"How are you, Mr. Potter?" Narcissa Malfoy asks, little more than a dark, curved shadow in the closet doorway. He begins to stutter out a reply when she plucks the cigarette from his hand and takes a long draw. "I suppose it's safe to assume this isn't the powder room?"

"I'm fine, thanks," he answers belatedly, feeling like a complete wanker. His eyes focus on his cigarette between her lips, wondering if he truly wants it back and why he let her just take it from him like that. "And no. The loo's down the hall, I think."

"Do you have an ashtray in here?"

"What? Uh, no."

"Is that why you're using your palm?

"Look, Mrs. Malfoy, I don't mean to be rude but-."

She walks into the closet and the door closes behind her. Luckily it's a wide closet that allows two people more than enough space amongst mops, brooms, and Mr. Magic's Magic Cleaner but there is no light. He doesn't think of casting a _Lumos_. They stand in the pitch dark, choking on smoke, as Mrs. Malfoy puffs on his cigarette and he watches the end flare up and die down like a pulse.

"You're in a closet with me, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Are you scared?"

"What?"

"Are you scared to be sharing a cigarette with me in a closet?"

Harry could only stare just above the cigarette at where he imagines her eyes to be. He doesn't have to look down but straight ahead. She is wearing stilettos that could kill, if he remembers correctly: deep purple and impossibly high, making her legs seem as long as London. Draco grumbled about it at first seeing her that evening. He had scoffed and said, "I can't believe she's wearing those! A woman of her age, I swear. I better not fucking have to levitate her home because she breaks her bloody ankle." Harry loved them but knew better than to say so.

"Am I scared to be sharing a cigarette with you?"

"In a closet, yes."

"No," he laughs and she at least is kind enough to toss a chuckle in so that it might not sound as awkward as it is. "It's just a little strange, don't you think?"

"Is it a girl?"

"A girl?"

"Whatever is upsetting you. Certainly you aren't ashamed of Miss Weasley; the hex she laid on Rita was masterful."

He laughs again but she doesn't join him. It sounds hallow. "No. I'm just disturbed, I guess. About things."

"Things." There is that long draw and flare that entrances him more every second. He thinks he'd really like his cigarette back now but doesn't know how to say it. She has unarmed him along with his nicotine. It was too masterfully accomplished for him to be upset but he'd like to have a puff or two for himself before she finishes it. "In general?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Mister Potter, I want to ask you something."

"Okay." The smoke is so heavy in the closet that it's hard for him to breathe. No matter how terrible he felt over Mrs. Longbottom, he does enjoy breathing and would be much happier about giving it up if he had his cigarette back. "What?"

"Will you take me home?"

"_What?_"

The closet door is flung open and he squints against the light, only seeing her as a shadow sighing the smoke of his own damn cigarette back at him. "Draco seems determined to get pissed. He might be willing to risk splicing himself for vodka, but I'm not."

"Why don't you floo?"

"This dress is couture."

"Oh."

"Do you know what that means?"

"No." Though he's sure Draco does.

"It means that it's very expensive and the soot will never come out."

"Oh." His eyes slowly adjust to the light and the rush of fake laughter from down the hall. He feels ridiculous standing in the closet while she's outside the door, adjusting her hair with one fine hand and lifting the cigarette for one last draw with the other. He finally works up the audacity to reach out to her lips for it, but she pulls it away and tosses it on the Ministry's glossy floor, crushing it beneath one of those stilettos of hers. He likes them far less because of it. "Won't you Apparate me home?"

"Why can't you Apparate yourself?"

"They took my wand."

"What?"

"The ministry took my wand. You remember."

"Oh. Yeah."

"I try not to mention it, but I've never been able to Apparate wandless. I never had to with Lucius. But now, well… how else am I supposed to get home?"

"There has to be someone else who-."

"Do you want me to beg?"

"What? No! Uh, here," he tosses his wand at her and she catches it with a precision that startles him. He always thought Draco got his Seeker skills from Mr. Malfoy but he begins to wonder if he was wrong.

Mrs. Malfoy only stares at him, holding his wand where she caught it. Suddenly he realizes what he did and wonders what she will do. "I suppose that wasn't a good idea, huh?" She shakes her head.

He stretches out a hand toward his wand. "Can I have that back?"

"Will you take me home?"

"Yeah, sure."

She walks away, tossing his wand over her shoulder as her stilettos do violence to the floor. He rushes to pick it up and follows her out of the ministry. No one, even the Savior of the Wizarding World, is allowed to Apparate inside. Luckily, he doesn't have to ride a toilet up with her, just a cramped phone booth with a Weird Sisters ballad thickening the silence.

* * *

--


	3. Part 3 of 5

_(Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the brainchild of J.K. Rowling and thus belongs to her and whomever she sells the rights to, which is not me in this case. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect of Harry Potter's creator. I claim no ownership of her creations. The Graduate also does not belong to me and I claim no right to the original work. Both works are gently parodied for the amusement of all and it is done so with admiration for the original material.)_

* * *

"Here we are." Harry says as he pulls his arm off from around Mrs. Malfoy's shoulders.

"Thank you," she mutters. She sets a delicate hand on her hair, her shoulders, her mouth, making sure everything is without mess. He's so mesmerized by this habit that he lingers a moment longer than he might have otherwise. "Will you come in, please?"

"What?"

"Without my wand, the gates can't be warded, Mr. Potter," she explains even while pushing them open and walking determinedly towards the specter of a house. He follows just to keep up the conversation. "Anyone can walk in and how am I to defend myself?"

"I'll walk you to the door then."

"Thank you."

He focuses on the sound of grit crunching beneath his feet instead of the sound of her breath and his own; mixed together in the silence, it sounds indecent. A white peacock makes a strange, throaty call from the trees. He doesn't have to see it to know what it is. He shivers with the thought as they finally reach the front door. A slab of marble hangs over their heads as she pulls out a key. There's a poem etched into it in one steady stream of letters without space or stop. Old Latin, he imagines, used from when Romans spoke it and before scholars diluted it. He has no hope of understanding it and instead focuses on Mrs. Malfoy opening the door.

"A key? Isn't that muggle?"

"There's a magic to keys, Mr. Potter." She tucks it in with her breasts and he can't help the momentary glance before he realizes what he is doing. "Would you mind walking ahead of me to the parlor?"

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. The Auror and child in him know better, but he's learned a sort of subtlety over the years. Everything strange isn't a trap. Only a great deal of it is. "Why?"

"I don't feel safe walking blindly into a dark house."

"But it's your house."

"And that's why I don't feel safe." She smiles sharply, and he feels small and exposed. "Don't worry, Mr. Potter. I suspect the good wizards and witches who would hide in my house and wait for the opportunity to kill me would do nothing to you. Well, besides ask to shake your hand."

"Don't you have house elves that could take care of you?"

"Please."

There is some sort of magic in her tone. He imagines it the voice of Queen Elizabeth I commanding him on while he leads the way into Malfoy manor and into one of the parlors. He keeps an eye out for the Spanish. She doesn't ask him how he knows the way. There are many terrible and complicated answers to that question. Once they entered the appropriate room, Mrs. Malfoy walks past him before he has even cast a lighting charm. When he does, she comes into view behind an elegant, cherry wood bar. He blinks, far more accustomed to seeing Draco in such a setting than his mother. She sets two cut-glass tumblers on the surface with a clink and thwack.

"What do you drink?"

"Look, Mrs. Malfoy. I Apparated you home. I made sure you got safely into your house. I was glad to do it. But I have things going on now-."

"What kind of things?"

"Important things. I really have some heavy things on my mind. I'm sure you can understand that?"

Mrs. Malfoy nods from behind the bar, pouring a drink.

"Alright then. Thank you and goodnight."

"What do you drink?" She continues to pour into the second glass. He can only stare at her with shock. She glances up while taking both the glasses in hand. "Mr. Potter, I'm sorry to be like this but I don't want to be left alone."

"Why not?"

"Please wait until Draco returns home."

"How long will that be?"

"I don't know." She walks around the bar toward him, glasses held aloft. "Drink?"

"No."

She pushes it into his chest and he has no choice but to take it. "Bourbon."

"Are you always this afraid to be alone, Mrs. Malfoy?" He takes a sip before remembering himself.

"Yes."

"Why don't you just lock the doors and go to sleep?"

"Would that make you feel safe, Mr. Potter? Laying down half-naked in a giant, empty house unprotected by wards, without a wand to defend you?"

"I guess I would try not to think about it."

"I can't help it."

"Why not?"

"I'm very neurotic."

He can only blink. The way she said the word made it sound like, "erotic." Harry wonders what's in the bourbon and sets it down on the bar. She glances back at the sound but with a motion of her hand, the drapes close, leaving them in a half-light darkness.

"May I ask you a question, Mr. Potter?" He stares at her, desperately trying to understand what is happening. Both his Auror training and his natural instincts are hissing for him to, "Get out, now!" but he has learned to look at the situation from an unemotional eye before reacting. He tries to imagine what Hermoine would think of the situation. He imagines she'd be telling him to get the hell out too. "What do you think of me?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Certainly you have formed an opinion."

He honestly can't think of a polite answer to that but doesn't want to insult her if possible. "I always thought… you wore really great shoes."

She takes a seat at the bar, crossing her legs so the purple stilettos bounce for his attention. "Did you know that I was an alcoholic?"

"What?"

"Now you understand where Draco learned it. Do you think I destroyed him or do you think Lucius did it first?"

Harry Potter begins to think Draco slipped something in his champagne back at the ministry and this was some huge hallucination. He does not find it the least bit funny and resolves to punch the bugger in the ear the next time he sees him. "Look, I think I should go."

"Sit down, Mr. Potter."

"Mrs. Malfoy, I don't mean to sound rude, but you have to admit this conversation is getting a little strange. I'm sure Draco will be home soon and -."

"No."

"What?"

"It's become his habit to return home late. I suspect he's found himself a secret paramour." She pulls her leg up and sets her stiletto against the stool she has asked Harry to sit in. The slit in her robes, so elegant and almost demure back at the ministry, began to creep up her thigh. "No one else should be home for hours."

"Oh my god."

"Pardon me?"

"No, Mrs. Malfoy. No." He puts a hand up and takes a step back though she hasn't made a move towards him. Her eyes are enough for him to feel pursued. He takes another step back.

"What's wrong?"

"Mrs. Malfoy, you didn't – you can't expect-!"

She smiles lazy. "What?"

"You can't possibly think I'd do something like that – this- that!"

"Like what?"

He blinks and searches for how to say it without saying it. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," she says and is all cultured curiosity.

"For Merlin's sake, Mrs. Malfoy. Look at us. Here we are, you got me to take you home, come into your house with you, and you offer me a drink. You close the curtains, strike a very revealing pose, and tell me no one will be home for hours!"

"And?"

Harry Potter takes another step back and raises a pointed finger in her general direction. He feels extremely rude but is too embarrassed to hide behind an armchair. This pointed finger at least puts something between them. "Mrs. Malfoy, you are trying to seduce me!"

The quiet is terrible. He expected some reaction but all she does is stare at him and blink. "Aren't you?"

She smiles slowly, shaking her head and sipping from her tumbler, and it's worse than a laugh. "No, I hadn't thought of it that way. But I'm flattered that you-."

"Mrs. Malfoy, I'm so sorry. Can you forgive me for saying that?"

"I understand." She finishes off her drink and picks up his. "That's fine."

"It's not fine. It's a terrible thing for me to say to you."

"Sit down," she says, setting his glass back where it was, even while pulling her stiletto off the seat. She moves to refill her tumbler.

"Please forgive me," he mumbles while sitting down and taking his glass in hand. She twirls the top off the bourbon bottle with familiarity. "You didn't deserve that. And I don't think of you that way. I guess I just got mixed up."

"I understand. Now finish your drink."

He raises the glass for a gulp but pulls it away to say, "Mrs. Malfoy, how could I say such a thing?" He takes a sip and puts it down. "It makes me sick that I actually said it."

"Forget it now. Finish your drink." She raises her own tumbler and gulps down half of it in one go. He watches with terrible fascination.

Harry shakes his head. "What's wrong with me?"

"I hear you are a friend of my sister, Andromeda."

"Yeah, we raise Teddy together."

She nods her head and finishes her bourbon. "Would you like to see a portrait of her as a girl?"

"Her portrait?"

"Yes. It was done when she was sixteen. You might find she resembled her daughter a great deal." She does not look to him while saying this. "Would you like to see it?"

"Very much." He summons the enthusiasm for a smile. She doesn't, but leads him from the room with resolve.

* * *


	4. Part 4 of 5

_(Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the brainchild of J.K. Rowling and thus belongs to her and whomever she sells the rights to, which is not me in this case. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect of Harry Potter's creator. I claim no ownership of her creations. The Graduate also does not belong to me and I claim no right to the original work. Both works are gently parodied for the amusement of all and it is done so with admiration for the original material.)_

* * *

"Here we are," Mrs. Malfoy says. She walks into the dark room without hesitation but he pauses to cast a lighting charm. It's a guest bedroom but she's a safe distance on the other side. Harry Potter slinks inside, trying to ignore the bed and find the promised portrait. He sees it above the antique secretary covered by a thin layer of dust. The teenager in a Hogwarts uniform –Ravenclaw- was sneezing.

"Andromeda certainly was an attractive girl, wasn't she? Not to say that she still isn't – an attractive woman, I mean. She's very pretty. Like Tonks. Wow, I never imagined she would have brown hair."

"What color is it now?" Mrs. Malfoy asks, and it is sad that she needs him to tell her what her own sister looks like.

"Gray," he says. "But it suits her."

"Mr. Potter?"

"Yes?" He glances over his shoulder to see her taking off her jewelry and tossing it down on the bed. She catches his eyes and he quickly looks away.

"Will you come over here for a minute?"

"Over there?" She hums her answer. He really doesn't want to, but hopes it might bring the night to an end sooner if he cooperates. "Sure."

"Will you help me out of my dress?" He is so shocked that he can't move, nonetheless answer. "I think I'll go to bed like you suggested."

"Well, goodnight then." He turns around to look for the door. Sometimes he hates how big the rooms are in this house. It is just wasteful and inconvenient.

"Won't you undo the buttons on the back of my dress? I can't reach them."

"Do I have to?"

She sighs. "If you still think I'm trying to seduce you-."

"No, I don't," he says though he's not so sure. He has no choice but to turn around and face her. "I just feel strange about it."

"I have a son your age, Mr. Potter."

"I know but still…" He finally finds the door again but has just enough pride and politeness left not to dash out of it. And she does look so annoyed that he suspects that he might be putting too much significance on things. After all, this is Narcissa Malfoy and he is Harry Potter. It is unthinkable. Perhaps this is just some strange aspect to Wizarding culture that he has yet to come across. Maybe it is only polite to help an older witch out of her dress.

"Come on," she mutters and turns her back on him. Since she is unarmed, he decides it can't hurt anyone. "It's hard for me to reach."

He approaches her from around the bed, glancing at the closed curtains and listening to the sound of an empty house. She sighs again. Harry reaches out and touches her back. She doesn't jump or make anything more than breathing movements. He begins to undo the buttons running down the length of her spine. But by the time he starts to get a view of her moon-white back, his hands are shaking too hard to accomplish more than a couple.

"I can't," he announces, stepping away and raising up his hands as if caught in some crime or calling quits at the face of an impossible trial.

"I didn't say you had to do it by hand, Mr. Potter," she says in tones of culture and disgust. "You have a wand, don't you?"

"Oh." He feels that he might just be the stupidest bloody wanker to ever walk the Earth. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you like that."

"It's perfectly alright."

"Thanks."

There is a long silence filled with his relief and continued distress.

"My dress."

"What?"

"Are you going to finish helping me out of my dress?"

"Oh, sure. Let me find my wand."

"Your back pocket." She reaches toward the back of her dress but, true to her word, she can't reach the majority of the buttons.

"Ha, yeah. There it is. How'd you know that?"

"I notice things." Somehow, when she says that, it sounds less like a talent and more like a weapon. He's slightly scared of what other things she might have noticed. Deciding it best to leave immediately, he casts a quick charm that causes the buttons to slip out of their loops and for the white material to slink away from her too-naked skin. He can see the laces of her corset and the small of her back. It's far too intimate for his liking. Harry Potter turns to flee.

"Thank you."

"Right," he says while rounding the bed.

She finally looks over her shoulder at him and laughs. "What are you so scared of, Mr. Potter. I have no wand or defense. You can't seriously believe me a threat?" He looks back to laugh and offer a quick apology and good night. Instead he sees her pulling down her dress, reveling her breasts peeking over the top of a white corset, matching delicate, white knickers. She's still wearing those purple stilettos and her legs seem impossibly long. Harry is sure he's going to be sick; the blood is pounding so hard in his temple. He can't swallow.

"Merlin's balls."

"That's not a very polite thing to say. Haven't you seen a woman getting ready for bed before?"

"Yes, but-."

He glances toward the door and then the portrait. Andromeda wrinkles her nose at him in disgust and walks away. He can only imagine what things she's going to tell the other portraits.

"I just- It's just." Harry Potter pauses for a breath and tries to look her in the eye. "Look- what would Draco think if he walked in right now?"

"What if he did?"

"It wouldn't look very good, would it?"

"Don't you think he trusts us together?"

"Why would he?" he asks in a fit of honesty. "Why wouldn't he get the wrong idea? Why wouldn't anyone?"

She kicks the dress aside, despite how expensive she had told him it was. Couture, he remembers. He tries to focus on the little things not on her body. At the moment, it included her dress. "I don't see why," she says. "I'm twice as old as you are, Mr. Potter. How could anyone think-?"

"But they would!" His voice breaks for the first time since he graduated Hogwarts. "Don't you see?"

"Mr. Potter – how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not seducing you?"

"I know, Mrs. Malfoy. But please, you have to understand this is difficult for me!"

She bends over and retrieves her jewelry from the bed. He turns away from the sight of her breasts as if physically slapped. "Why is that?" she asks, watching his reactions, noticing the little things but ignoring the bigger picture.

"Because." He searches his mind for something approaching a coherent thought. "Because I lost my mind two years ago, Mrs. Malfoy, and I'm having a very hard time trying to figure out what's real and what's not. I can't tell when I'm imagining things or if it's actually happening. I can't tell if-."

She finally stands up and – for Merlin's sake!- crosses her arms, bringing her breasts higher up to her chin and impossible to avoid. "Would you like for me to seduce you?"

"…What?"

She purses her lips. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Harry opens his mouth to object but gives up. "I'm going home now," he says with exhausted calm. "I'm sorry for what I said. I hope we can forget it. But I have to go home now before this gets any stranger or I say something worse."

She doesn't object and he walks out the door with unhurried steps. He doesn't know what he's waiting for but, at descending the staircase down to the Grand Entry, he finally breathes free air.

"Mr. Potter."

He cringes inside and out. "Yes," he yells back without turning around. He hears her walking down the hall away from him and feels safe.

"Will you bring my purse up to me?"

"I really have to go now, I'm sorry."

"And I really don't want to have to put my dress back on to get it. Is it such a trial for you to bring it up before you go?"

He sighs and looks around him. "Where is it?"

"On a chair in the parlor."

He hears her walk away. Harry jogs down the hall to the parlor, finds the purse he never remembered her carrying, and runs back. Mrs. Malfoy is nowhere to be seen. He should have felt more comfortable but, if anything, he is more on edge with her hiding somewhere.

He begins to climb the stairs. "Mrs. Malfoy?" he yells out, half-hoping and dreading a response. "Mrs. Malfoy?"

"I'm in the powder room!" she calls back. He suddenly wonders where the bloody house elves are. Their disappearance is scarier than hers, but only because they would only be gone if ordered so.

"Well, here's your purse!" He stops halfway up the stairs. "Come to the railing and I'll hand it up!"

He can almost hear her sigh in the silence. "Mr. Potter, I'm starting to get annoyed by all this suspicion! If you won't do me a simple favor, I don't know what! Considering I saved your life, it seems a common enough request!"

"Fuck." He squeezes the bridge of his nose before climbing the rest of the way up the stairs. "I'm putting it on the top step!"

"For Merlin's sake, Mr. Potter, if you're not going to stop acting that way, will you at least set it down in the guest bedroom?"

"The one we were in?"

"Yes."

"Alright," he says while approaching the door with suspicion. He places the purse down on the exact spot she tossed her jewelry. It's very hard to ignore the dress still lying on the floor. Andromeda has yet to return to her portrait. He hopes she doesn't have the wrong idea.

He catches a flash of white in the corner of his eye and turns to see Mrs. Malfoy, all skin, closing the door. "Oh God." He is rooted to the spot by her smile, even as he watches her lock the door. "Let me out."

"Don't be nervous." She raises her hands up as if that might subdue him. He can't help watching how her skin moves.

"Get away from that door."

She puts her hands down and his wretched eyes follow the movement down, down, down. He can't believe she is _still_ wearing those heels. She must have taken his compliment to heart.

"I want to say something first."

"Merlin's balls!"

"Mr. Potter." She did an amazing job ignoring his shock and dismay. She had been all night. "I would like you to know that I'm available to you. If you won't sleep with me right now-."

"Oh my God."

"If you won't sleep with me this time, Mr. Potter, I'd like you to know that you can use the fire to call me at any time and we'll make arrangements."

"Let me out!"

"Do you hear me?"

He is having a hard time with how loud all that skin is but says, "Yes, yes, I hear you. Now let me out!"

"Because I find you very attractive and-."

He hears the crack of someone Apparating; he is sure of it. Despite the fact he will have to touch her, he shoves Mrs. Malfoy aside and runs out the door, jumping down the stairs so quickly it feels like he's flying without a broomstick. He hears the sound of footsteps on gravel and a soft _Alohomora_. With a sudden flash of insight, he pulls his wand out of his back pocket and Disapparates.

He feels like an idiot that he didn't think of that before.

* * *

--


	5. Part 5 of 5

_(Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the brainchild of J.K. Rowling and thus belongs to her and whomever she sells the rights to, which is not me in this case. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect of Harry Potter's creator. I claim no ownership of her creations. The Graduate also does not belong to me and I claim no right to the original work. Both works are gently parodied for the amusement of all and it is done so with admiration for the original material.)_

* * *

Harry Potter has had too much time to think before he arrives at the ministry. Seeing his victim worshiping a cup of coffee and half-heartedly crunching the Daily Prophet in order to see the Quidditch headline, he strides directly toward him. If his victim had drunk the coffee instead of blowing sweet-little nothings over it for the last two minutes, he might have sensed the approach. He usually has a sixth sense about Harry Potter and his temper tantrums. But, alas, he has not had his coffee this morning and had far too much beautiful vodka last night.

Draco is completely unawares until Harry socks him in the ear. "Fucking hell, Potter!" The paper cup is crunched and the coffee splatters over the table top, his lap, Harry's shoes, and the poor, abused Daily Prophet. "What in Merlin's name could I have done so early to deserve that?" He holds his cherry-red ear in a hand and whacks Harry in the stomach with the other. "You bloody prick. Damn. Shite. This bloody hurts!"

"Stop whinging, Malfoy."

"Is this because of what I said at the ceremony last night? Creevey was being such a bastard and it was the first thing to fly out of my mouth. Blame my upbringing, Potter."

"Oh, I do," he pulls a chair out and sits down. Draco begins to forget his ear and realize the state of his slacks and coffee. He looks horrified. "Speaking of upbringing-Your mother, Malfoy."

"Your mother, Potter! Look what you did to my coffee!"

"What?"

"Aren't we exchanging insults?"

"No."

"Oh," Draco appears genuinely disappointed. "I thought you'd finally opened the door on 'Your Mother.'"

"Fuck you," he said it with a laugh.

"You're far too uptight about the entire thing."

"She was murdered!"

"Yes, well, now that you've gotten me all excited, what's this about my mother?"

Harry takes a deep breath. He's been preparing this rant in his mind all morning; to be honest, since last night. He had a good tantrum worked up but in the pause, he realizes the amount of ministry officials around him. The pay is still so terrible, there's no doubt almost all of them would sell any piece of gossip to The Daily Prophet for a couple extra galleons. He's probably already earned himself a headline such as "Harry Potter Attacks an Unspeakable." He adjusts his voice low.

"Your mother made me Apparate her home last night."

"And so?" Draco spares him a look of disgust while he uses an embroidered handkerchief to dab at the coffee on his trousers. "These are Egyptian cotton, Potter. The stain will never come out."

"Are they couture?"

"What?"

"Never-mind. But your mother, Malfoy, she forced me to walk her to the door. There was nothing I could do."

He scoffs and tosses his handkerchief on the tabletop. "Heaven forbid."

"But then she made me have a drink with her."

"Are you sure this isn't supposed to be an insult?"

"Then she put her leg up on a chair and-," Harry whispers.

Draco sits back in the chair and crosses his arm with pique. "Oh God."

"I know! That's what I thought!"

"You're complaining because my mother was being polite to you?"

"What? No!" Harry searches again for some way to say it without saying it. "She put her leg UP on a chair, Malfoy. High."

At least Draco seems to pause at hearing that. He doesn't say anything and his face only pulls into a distrustful expression, but Harry knows that means he is listening.

"Your mother was trying to seduce me."

"Hmm," he responds, reaching out and turning the crumpled coffee cup around to face away. It is a nervous gesture and relieves Harry since it means Draco might believe him. "How do you know that?"

"Because she trapped me in a bedroom, stood in front of me naked, and asked me to sleep with her."

"I see." He picks up the crumpled coffee cup, raises it to his lips, and waits for any remaining sip within. "So?"

Harry is startled by Draco's voice. It has that I'm-Going-To-Fuck-With-You-For-Fun tone to it. He hadn't been expecting that one. He expected the I'm-Going-To-Break-Your-Nose tone. "So?" He is mystified.

"So, did you take her up on the offer?"

At first, Harry is shocked that he would even ask such a thing. Then he is scared that he might believe he'd do such a thing. Then he is pissed that he'd suggest such a thing. Thankfully, Draco breaks out laughing before Harry has the chance to sock him in the other ear.

"I hate you," he grumbles, sitting back in his chair with a pout. Draco just laughs. He's so angry that the statement is almost true.

"You're the one who knocked my coffee all over my trousers and then gave me that lovely mental image of my mother naked to start my day. You deserved that, Potter."

"You're such a bastard."

"And your fly's open."

Harry looks down and nearly does harm to himself with the rush to pull his zipper up. "Only a pouf like you would notice, Malfoy."

"Fine, see if I ever tell you again. Go ahead and have your picture in The Daily Prophet with your bits hanging out. See if I care."

"How can you be so damn calm about this?" Harry asks. "Your mother would've raped me if she still had a wand!"

Draco looks at him seriously for precisely one second before bursting out again in hysterical laughter. That receives as many stares as the coffee incident. Harry could see the headline now, "Potter Spoils Unspeakable's Pants, Not His Sense of Humor."

"You do realize she knows, right?"

"What?"

"Potter. She _knows_."

"About?"

Draco scoffs. "Do I have to bloody spell it out for you?"

"Apparently!"

"Think, Potter, what might my mother _know_ that would involve you but _I know_ better than to say in fucking public and you're still not getting this, are you?"

"Sorry."

"Merlin's balls, Harry!" he hisses and glances around them. "She _knows_."

"I still don't-," and then Harry suddenly stops, turns beet-red, and rearranges himself in his seat, uncrossing his legs to take up a more manly position of both feet on the floor. "Oh. She _knows_."

"Sometimes it's a wonder we ever communicate, you ditz."

"Pouf."

"Stop saying that."

"Blame my upbringing." Harry grins and Draco scrunches his nose at him with distaste. It's far too much like the expression on Andromeda's portrait for his liking. Now that the one topic they had made Unspeakable between them had been touched upon, he hurries to move the conversation onward. "And last night was what? A test?"

"A joke."

"It didn't feel like a fucking joke."

"The Blacks have always had the most peculiar sense of humor. You're lucky Auntie Bellatrix didn't like you enough to try teasing you. Someday, remind me to show you the scars on the back of my legs. Oh, she loved to laugh. It was terrible. And mother…well, she gets bored and now that she doesn't have her own wand to play with, how is she supposed to entertain herself?"

"That pun was unforgivable, Malfoy."

"I know," he said miserably, "but how can you expect me to be witty sitting in my coffee?"

"So it was a joke to her? It wasn't funny."

"Not to you perhaps."

"I hate your family, Draco."

"Your mother, Potter."

Harry lets that one go. "Don't you have to go make someone else's coffee?"

"Oh yes," Draco says pleasantly. "And aren't you needed somewhere to receive the praise for someone else's work? Or perhaps you're meeting the Weaslette in some corner so you can choke on that ginger hair for a couple minutes."

"Ha. Maybe I should. Thanks for the suggestion."

"Suck it."

They stand up together and check their watches –Harry on his wrist and Draco with his family heirloom. "Sorry about the pants," he mutters.

Draco nods and rearranges the robes over his shoulders. "You'll make it up to me."

"What? No. You're going to be the one making it up to me. Your mother sexually harassed me last night. I actually feel violated."

"You should be honored. It means she might actually like you."

"You know," he says, "if that's how it works, I could've done without."

"You're so muggle," Draco announces while gathering up his newspaper and walking away.

"Pouf," Harry mutters.

"Oh, and Potter."

"What."

Draco grins at him over the ministry officials that crisscross around them. "Mother told me to say, 'Congratulations!' to the graduate."

"I hate you," he shouts back and listens to him laugh the entire way to the lifts. In retrospect, he supposes it might be kind of funny. Nevertheless, it'd be years until he would admit it, but telling his wife the story would involve her asking too many questions. So like everything else, he wouldn't say a word but only wait for the glances with Draco in the ministry, chance encounters in Diagon Alley, and a couple times a year on Platform 9 ¾. For a moment, they'd both remember and laugh. And they'd _know_.

* * *


End file.
